Waltz For P.
The door, half-open, the sound
Of piano keys one by one
Accelerating, rushing,
Then, softly and gently
Fingertips only
On your neck
And my hair;
The doormat, greasy,
White stains on black,
White stains on white,
White saints above,
And below — white
Snow.
Hands jump
From one place to another,
Passionate, yet thoughtful,
Albeit slightly nervous;
A black bough
With a little cloud atop,
Red on white,
White on black
And white on white again.
A lucid view
Through an opaque surface,
Chills mixed with warmth
Within and around;
Muted soft sound
Goes on for a while,
Numbs the senses,
Then, suddenly, a couple
Of accurate and precise
Touches make such
Clear and dazing notes,
That you just sit there
Overwhelmed.
The drum, slow and steady
And swingy and lazy,
As the body trembles,
Bends slightly, freezes
And goes crazy;
Translucent wings
Flutter over white
And black and gold,
The bird serenades
In the dim, shivering light.
He puts his hands
Around her body
And a calming, warm,
Quiet sound
Of a pulsating heart
Blurs and blends
All the colours:
White on gold,
Gold on black,
Black on white,
White on hazel
And so on
And so forth;
An upright bent
Of bent upright;
Hold on,
Forever.
The end.
